Keeping It
by SweetSinger2010
Summary: Against his better judgment, Chopper gets attached to Hera's little boy. Started as a one-shot; updated with more as inspiration strikes.
1. Keeping It

A/N: Inspired by a string of convoluted conversation with **TheYellowLantern, lothcat1138, and Westward Glance.** Thanks for the inspiration, guys!

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Keeping It

The human child looked like its father—to an almost startling degree. Not at first, though. No. At first, the child—"baby," Hera called it when it was in its smallest form—looked just sort of…soft and round. No distinguishable features; neither its mother's green skin and lekku nor its father's dark hair and prominent nose. Mostly, it cried.

Except for when Hera held it. It _always_ stopped crying when Hera picked it up, even when it appeared to be sick or in pain. She held it carefully, whispering things in its ear, too quiet for Chopper's audio sensors to pick up. But her touch and the sound of her voice never failed to soothe its fusses and cries. It was evident that Hera had developed, in addition to her many other talents and abilities, the ability to mother this small human exceptionally well.

But perhaps the relationship between Hera and the child was reciprocal in nature; Chopper noticed that as often as the child stopped crying when she held it, _she_ stopped crying when she held it. Crying was something Hera did often during her pregnancy and for quite some time thereafter—always in private, of course, and never for very long. But Chopper had learned the tell-tale signs: swollen eyes, hoarse voice, damp cheeks. The death of Kanan Jarrus had affected Hera irreversibly, Chopper was afraid. But holding the child seemed to lift her spirits, mostly. (Once or twice, she'd cried _harder_ after picking the child up, which distressed Chopper greatly.)

When it was several months old, it started reaching for Hera voluntarily, putting its arms around her neck and holding tightly when she picked it up. By the time it was one standard year old, it could speak a single intelligible word in the middle of its babbles: _mom_. Hera's face shone like a supernova each and every time she heard it.

Chopper was wary.

He'd seen that same look in her eyes before and he had attached a label to it: love. Chopper had had ten years to observe the way that Hera looked at Kanan, and that particular expression was one of love. Although this kind of love, the way Hera loved the child, Chopper reasoned, was much different than the way she'd loved its father. Still, it _was_ love. Chopper thought—and often at that—about cautioning Hera against forming any kind of permanent bond with the child. What if something happened to it? Chopper just _knew_ she'd never recover from such a thing. He couldn't watch her grieve over someone twice. Adjusting to Kanan's absence had been brutal enough.

By the time it was a year and a half old, the child looked much more like its father. It had hair (green, though), a dimpled grin, and angular, quirky brows. It was also able to toddle around now, pointing to things and very nearly speaking their correct names. "Chop" and "mom" were still the most intelligible. It used Chopper as a brace when it stood, and patted its chubby hand on the side of Chopper's body when it got excited about something. It figured out how to stand on Chopper's strut and hold on as the droid wheeled through the ship. The sound of the child's laugh was one Chopper found himself growing fond of, and he fought that feeling gear and gyro.

He rolled into the cockpit late one night when he knew Hera was there working on the navi-computer. He was very vocal in his displeasure about the unidentified marks and sticky grime the child's fingers had left on his paint.

Hera swiveled in her seat, turning around to look at him with narrowed eyes. " _His_ name is _Jacen_ ," she corrected. It was the five hundred thirty-seventh time she'd said that, and she was apparently tired of repeating herself. "What is _wrong_ with you? Jacen is my _son_ , Chopper. He's not going anywhere. Get used to it or find somewhere else to work. I'm sure the maintenance workers on the flagship could use another astromech— _maybe for scrap._ "

Chopper shot back before he had time to think too much about it: _I_ _ **told**_ _you not to name Kanan when he came aboard. Look how that ended up for us._

Us. It was such a simple slip to make; the inclusion of a pronoun which suddenly clarified the root of Chopper's irritation.

Hera's eyes widened and her expression went soft. "I will _always_ miss him," she said. She leaned forward, elbows on knees. "It's okay if you do, too. It was hard. It's still hard."

Chopper swiveled his dome to mimic the humanoid _no_ gesture. Grieving was not something he'd been programmed for. He refused.

"You're Jacen's friend, you know," Hera said. Her voice was quiet. "Sometimes, he asks about you first thing in the morning. That little boy adores you. I know—it's hard to—when he looks so much like Kanan." Her voice started taking on that thick, hoarse quality and she looked away. "It's hard for me, sometimes."

Chopper considered that for a moment. _It doesn't concern you—getting attached?_

"Everything concerns me," she sighed. She turned back to the navi-computer. "But I'm not _getting_ attached, Chopper. I _am_ attached. From the very first moment I knew I was pregnant with him. I worry about him. I worry about the future. But that's not going to stop me from loving him with my whole heart."

Chopper grumbled. Sentient behavior was so illogical. _If you keep your distance, you won't get hurt._

"Oh, for kark's sake." Hera swore, which was rare, and it instilled a healthy amount of fear in Chopper. The Twi'lek glared. "I did nothing _but_ keep my distance from Kanan for ten years, remember?" Her tone was sharp. "And that _did_ hurt. Almost more than anything else." She tried hard to stop frowning. "I'm done letting fear dictate how I live my life. I'm certainly not going to let it dictate how I care for my son." A pause. "And you shouldn't, either."

Chopper rolled back and forth on his struts, considering. _**I'm**_ _not afraid. Just looking out for_ _ **you—**_ _please excuse my good intentions._ He turned to leave, but not before he saw Hera roll her eyes. _Spectre Seven,_ he said at the door.

"What?"

 _If you insist on keeping him, we should call him Spectre Seven._

"Spectre Seven," she repeated. She didn't sound displeased. "I _am_ keeping him and I'll take that under advisement."

Chopper wheeled out, pausing in the hall outside of Spectre Seven's—Jacen's—room. Though the child was sleeping, he let himself inside, rolling quietly. Blue eyes peeped open to look at the droid, and one little hand stuck through the crib slats. Chopper drew closer, extending a manipulator arm for the little one to latch onto. Jacen mumbled unintelligibly as he fell back to sleep, holding tight to Chopper.

Inwardly, Chopper cursed himself; he hadn't ever meant to let this boy worm his way into his limited affections. Almost every sentient he cared for was either dead or absent. Sentients were a liability, as far as Chopper was concerned. Yet—he couldn't stay away from them.

And this one _did_ look so much like Kanan and Hera.

Yes—this child had wormed his way into Chopper's affections. Grudgingly, Chop decided to let him stay.


	2. Cannot Tell a Lie

A/N: An absolutely pointless, stupid, imperfect little fic I just had to write. Got the idea when I saw a bit of ESB the other day. Hope there's something in here you can enjoy!

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Cannot Tell a Lie

The organics had complained over and over about the climate on this planet being cold; in fact, they never _stopped_ complaining. No matter what time of day, no matter where he was or where he was going, it never failed that Chopper passed some being, either muttering to itself or complaining to a companion, who was remarking on the low temperature. Zeb certainly said it a lot, using choice phrases and interjecting _his_ opinions about the higher-ups who'd picked this Force-blasted iceball for a base—and that's usually when Hera would come in, arch an eyebrow in that menacing way she was better at than anyone else and pierce the Lasat with her gaze and: "You were saying?" And that was usually the end of the discussion.

Chopper, for his part, didn't mind the temperature. He couldn't _feel_ the cold, of course, but he was well aware that the shock in his left strut was considerably less stick-y under these conditions than hotter, more humid ones. That suited him just fine. Easier to skulk about unnoticed if you weren't squeaking like a child's toy.

Speaking of child—

Chopper didn't want to say he _missed_ having Hera's youngling about, but days _did_ seem longer without the boy's laughter and squeals and occasional tantrums and constant barrage of mostly-intelligible chatter. He'd grown fond of the child and grateful for his existence, even; how delightful that Hera didn't have to stare down a lifetime of loneliness in the absence of her mate. (He'd been worried about that in those first few weeks after Kanan's death, before he'd noticed the odd, growing curvature of Hera's belly.) Less delightful was the way her eyes had looked red and bleary for hours after she'd left the little one on Lothal with Sabine for safekeeping.

"Hoth," she said firmly and repeatedly, "is no place for a toddler."

No one was disagreeing with her; Chopper wondered why Hera felt the need to keep reiterating that fact.

He meant to ask her about it. Was this something she thought everyone had forgotten and therefore needed to keep reminding them of? Or—and he felt this was more likely—was she trying to convince herself she'd done the right thing? She seemed to do that a lot. Well, she needed to stop. Of _course_ she'd done the right thing. And anyway, they'd inhabited Echo Base for a month now. It wasn't like she'd dropped Jacen off yesterday. That hidden, sad look in her eyes was getting old.

Chop had a few ideas about how to put a little spark back into those eyes. It would be at his own considerable peril, but he determined the benefits would outweigh the risks this time. Besides, she wouldn't do any lasting damage if she decided to lay hands on him; the _Ghost's_ navi-computer had gotten finnicky—too much time sharing hangar bays with the blasted _Falcon_ , he thought— and Chopper had learned to deal with its quirks better than Hera had. _That_ was a state of affairs which would, no doubt, be rectified in short order, but ensured Chopper's temporary safety.

He devised a plan, plotted a series of annoyances that would make Hera's head spin in absolutely no time at all.

He changed his mind, though, when he discovered Hera was in a truly testy mood. There was a Not Good Situation on base currently. Commander Skywalker was missing and nightfall was approaching, and that meant another good pilot was about to die. Leaving Jacen on Lothal notwithstanding, _nothing_ bothered Hera more than losing a pilot. And Skywalker was an exceptional one, and a Jedi, too. (Chop suspected he reminded her a bit of Ezra, but she didn't talk about it.)

His nefarious mission aborted, Chop rolled through the hangar bay, headed for the command center. He stopped when he saw a fellow astromech keeping watch at the blast door, sensor array extended and swiveling. R2-D2. He was Skywalker's droid. Or Leia Organa's? Unclear; he was loyal to both, at any rate. And he was no doubt scanning the barren planet's surface for any sign of Skywalker.

Now, Chopper wasn't particularly _fond_ of Artoo—and even less so of the droid's insufferable counterpart—but worrying for the wellbeing of one's master…he remembered when Hera had been in Thrawn's captivity, fate unknown. He could empathize—as far as his circuits and programming allowed.

He whistled a greeting, stopped next to the blue-domed droid. _Having any luck?_

 _You think I'd be here if I_ _ **was?**_ _It's karking cold._ Artoo's reply was tinged with bitter impatience.

Chopper swiveled his dome, giving Artoo the droid equivalent of a flat glare. _Kriff you, too._

He turned away and Artoo grumbled an electronic sigh before he said, _I've had several masters. But Luke—my first master—he's her son. I owe it to her to—_

And he didn't say anything else.

If Chopper _could_ experience a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach—as he'd heard organics describe—he'd have been feeling one after he heard that. He tried to imagine if the roles were reversed and that was Jacen out there, lost with little chance of surviving.

(He couldn't let himself think about Ezra. Hera had asserted her belief over and over that the dark-haired youth was out there somewhere and doing just fine. Chopper had to believe that or else go crazy.)

He rattled off a string of curses as he wished Artoo the very best of luck. Very suddenly, he'd started to understand Hera's constant worry over her offspring. _Anything could kriffing happen to him._ And that was…horrifying? unsettling? the worst thing imaginable?

Chopper wasted no time making his way to Hera's on-base quarters. There was some…business he wanted to take care of.

When the door slid open, Hera looked up from her datapad—technically, it was the middle of her night-cycle and she should have been asleep, but she was studying charts and reports instead—and she frowned. A threatening finger pointed in his direction. "It's been twenty-three years and I _know_ when you're up to something, so whatever you—"

 _Can we call and check on Jacen?_ He interrupted.

Her eyes widened and then she squinted, acting like she didn't understand. As if he hadn't just spoken to her in plain binary. "Can we _what?_ "

 _The child,_ he rephrased saucily, _whom you conceived and carried after relations with—_

"Stop _immediately_." And _there_ was that flash and fire on her face. He wasn't sure whether her glare was more likely to melt the base's icy walls or add another layer of frost to them. "What are you on about?" She demanded.

 _Well—can we?_ He knew she hadn't forgotten the initial question.

She kept right on staring at him, but the longer she did, the more her expression modified; first into something soft, and then into something smug. "You miss him," she said at last. Her lips parted with what could only be called a smirk. "Don't you? You want to check on him."

 _I don't know what you're talking about,_ he snapped back. _Droids aren't programmed to 'miss' organics. It only seems logical that_ _ **you**_ _would want to check on him, given that it's been seventy-five hours, forty-eight minutes, and seventeen seconds since you last did so._

There was a grandiose eyeroll, a trace of a smile, and a muttered something that sounded a lot like _krayt spit_ before Hera said, "Alright." A pause. "We'll have to wait a couple hours—it's only just now sunrise on Lothal."

Chopper accepted this with a cool acknowledgment and plugged in for a short re-charging cycle. He knew Hera was watching him. If she intended to heckle him over this, it seemed she wasn't going to do it right away. Generous of her, he thought; he knew she hadn't fallen for his act.

 _I was talking to Artoo_ , he said after a prolonged silence. Hera looked up questioningly. _You organics are too fragile._

She hummed thoughtfully. "You're not wrong." He noticed how she glanced at her footlocker, where she kept her kalikori. Then she looked back at him. "But our crew—the Spectres. We're all okay, even Jacen."

 _For now,_ he amended darkly.

Her eyes rolled again. "Thank you for that."

 _Statistically—_

"Chop?"

 _What?_

She pretended to read whatever was on the datapad she held. "Jacen misses you, too."

He made an aggravated noise. _I do_ _ **not**_ _—_

And then he shut up. Because Chopper was a lot of things, but a liar wasn't one.


End file.
